


velveteen

by reflectionslie (fallsink)



Category: Red Velvet (K-pop Band), UNIQ (Band)
Genre: Character Study, F/M, Meta
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-09
Updated: 2015-10-09
Packaged: 2018-04-25 12:44:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,932
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4961128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fallsink/pseuds/reflectionslie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>in which Seulgi sees herself in Sungjoo and falls in love with both</p>
            </blockquote>





	velveteen

**Author's Note:**

> x-posted from [here (aff)](http://www.asianfanfics.com/story/view/968297/)  
> I dunno this became way too long I guess it's just some seulgi meta ;;

Piano keys rise and drop steadily, in time with and in between the raindrops outside the window. She’s steady, concentrating, but her fingers are so practiced that soon her gaze wanders and it keeps trailing back to the figure reclined on the dark red couch.

Even from this far, his eyes glow and are unwavering and it lights a spark inside her. Yet it comforts her so she doesn’t look away. His lips curl up in a knowing way before he tips the rim of his black hat down over his eyes.

She thinks of imitation velvet, of stories of toys coming alive with love, of maybe there’s a heaven. And she falls somewhere between the stormy clouds and the velveteen curtains.

 

* * *

 

To Seulgi, music, singing, any creative art is all about pushing herself until almost breaking point while still maintaining a smile. As hard and soon as she can, while she’s still young and still has dreams beyond university. It’s what got her here in this program in the first place, in this prestigious academy for the arts.

The most she can hope for is that she doesn’t burn out, first or at all.

She’s already watched a few of her friends, or maybe they were people that she thought she knew, drop out and leave whatever left they had of dreams in dusted corners. Demoralizing would be an understatement as she watches hunched shoulders, broken in more ways than one and no longer able to carry the weight of something so intangible.

But even more, she’s seen many of other students flourishing under the pressure and being swept off to take more steps towards their dreams, with scraps of hearsay to filter back down to current students’ ears. It pushes her on, though, know that there  _is_  a chance, however slim. So she continues to whisper and sing words of the Lord to get her through the tough times.

The truth of the matter of it, though, sometimes she wonders who she’s doing it for—the Lord, as she says, or her parents, or herself.

And, if for whatever reason, she lost singing or her musical touch, she doesn’t know what she would be left with, or who she is, or who would stand by her. Something at the back of her mind scratches out certain names and sometimes at the darkest of nights, it’s the one who’s supposed to hear her at all times and knows all.

But she would never tell.

 

* * *

 

It’s not like that for Sungjoo.

What strikes her first about him when they first meet is how young he is.

When she signed up for piano lessons in addition to her time singing in the church choir, she had heard that he is a prodigy of the academy, spending more time outside the old stone walls performing for names followed with fancy titles than in the classroom. It is already a feat that she snagged an hour every Thursday for him to teach her.

“It’s thanks to both you and Jongin, really,” she says after introductions, smoothing her skirt and settling in the seat before the piano. The practice room had also been rented out by him and she can’t help the small clench in her chest at her boyfriend’s thoughtfulness.

Things like these came easy to Jongin…

“Yes,” Sungjoo replies from beside her and loosens his tie. “Anything for a good family friend.” His voice is low and rough, but even in the muted afternoon light, his gaze is piercing.

Something about him annoys her though. Maybe it’s the way he carries himself. All clean-cut, from the sleeveless shirt he wears down to the dark jeans that hug his lean figure. Or maybe it is that he also has monolids, which is something that is becoming rarer lately as most people favor the double lid. Or maybe it is the curves of his lips that gives off the sense that he knows something that she doesn’t.

He breaks into her thoughts then when he taps a finger against the grand instrument and his lips curl into a smirk.

“Show me what you’ve got.”

 

* * *

 

Their first few lessons aren’t difficult, but they aren’t easy either.

Sungjoo smiles often—laughs even at sometimes the most ridiculous things—but his criticisms are sharper than his unwavering gaze and it has her chewing her lip to hold back any biting words back.

To be honest, everything about Sungjoo is sharp, from his cheekbones and his jawline made for magazines to the way his cinder-colored eyes never miss anything. Only his voice is smooth, almost silvery, which contrasts from the rest of him.

“Stop, stop.”

Almost reluctantly, she does.

He shakes his head and taps a knuckle against the sheet music in front of her. “You’re too fast, this piece is supposed to be a stroll in the park, not a soldier’s march.” Turning his back and strolling to the window, he says, “Try again.”

She nods and, rolling back her sleeves, starts over. But before she can get very far, his voice cuts over the notes.

“You know,” he says offhandedly, running his hands against the velveteen curtains. “I’ve always hated these curtains.” Picking it up against his skin, it looks from this distance like he’s holding a handful of dark red shadows. “Imitation velvet, trying to be something that it’s not.”

Then he turns back and takes an exaggerated breath, chest expanding. “Relax, close your eyes, and just listen. Get a  _feel_  for the notes. Again.”

It’d be her luck, though, to find someone who’s a sharper critic of her than herself.

She quickly finds herself practicing long after he leaves their lessons, determined to get the sections right. Soon, however, she starts to wonder who she’s trying to prove to – to herself or to him.

 

* * *

 

After their first few lessons together, he hangs back and asks her while leaning against the velveteen curtains with his arms crossed and watching her pack her bags.

“Why do you practice so hard?”

Though her hand hesitates in its movements, she doesn’t answer right away. It’s only when she’s finished stuffing away her sheet music and slinging her bag onto her shoulder.

“All my friends,” she says, slowly. As if she’s choosing each of her words carefully. She can feel him watching her and it keeps the words flowing. “We trained together. But now they’re succeeding and… and I’m not.” She trails her fingertips against the black and ivory keys. “I started piano because I wanted—”

“I understand.”

Startled, she looks up to see him staring at her through his bangs, his lips pulled back in a smile. But it’s a bittersweet gesture and a familiar expression. An expression that can only speak from experience, an expression that says,

_Me too._

 

* * *

 

Then on, they spend more of the silences talking.

It’s easy, she realizes. They think very much the same, though with different views (which is to be expected of two people who have led very different lives) and in a short amount of time, they are speaking like old friends. She tells him of her simple upbringing and all the hopes she has. He tells stories of his travels and all the regrets.

More than anything else, she’s surprised that she likes that he’s different. In so many ways similar, but different enough to complement.

But sometimes it’s a bit jarring.

“Do you believe in heaven?”

Sungjoo opens a sleepy eye from where he had rested his cheek on velvet covering the piano. Takes in her asking expression, then shakes his head, his hair scratching the smooth surface. “No. What has God ever done for me?”

Her heart leaping in her chest, she asks, breathily, “Don’t… don’t you have faith in Him?”

“Please,” he says, closing his eyes again and resting his cheek against his arm. “It’s God who has no faith in man.”

 

* * *

 

When they are sitting on the muted red couch together, she asks about his childhood, he shakes his head. “It was just my mother and I. My father left.”

“But why? He must have loved her—” she stops and furrows her eyebrows. He’s throwing his head back and lets out a humorless laugh. “You’re laughing.”

He quiets at her almost accusation. “Oh, I just don’t understand the whole obsession with romantic love,” he says. “Why does it matter if he loved her or not? He didn’t love his son enough to stay around, what does it say about his ‘love’ for her?”

A small sob rises in her chest that she isn’t able to conceal behind her hand. He whips around and stares.

“You’re crying,” he says, almost blankly and squaring his shoulders towards her.

She angrily wipes her wet eyes on her sleeve, but the tears just keep coming. “I-I’m just so sorry that you’ve been hurt like that,” she whispers, “so I’m crying in your stead.”

“Hey.” Suddenly, she’s pulled into his chest, one of his hands around her wrist and the other in her hair.

Tense muscles quickly relax and she’s closing her eyes, burying her face into his shirt and mutters, “I hope you’ll find someone to heal you.”

There is a chuckle from deep. “I don’t need anyone to heal me.” He pauses. “I just need someone who will stay, who will complement me.”

Pulling back, she furiously blinks away the rest of the tears before saying, “I don’t know about complementing you, but I could stay if you’d like.”

At this distance, his charcoal eyes are no longer piercing and they connect with hers, searching for what seems like forever, before he laughs, low and growling,

“That would be nice.”

 

* * *

 

On their next day off, he takes her to the studio where he recorded his first CD.

It’s obvious as soon as they step in that it is unplanned event, but not unwelcome. As soon as Sungjoo steps in with a “Sorry to intrude,” there is a great commotion and Seulgi steps out of the way just in time as a broad figure scoops her teacher into a crushing hug. She watches with quiet amusement.

Sungjoo introduces her to Yixuan, his senior while they were at school and now his manager. Exchanging warm handshakes, Yixuan introduces them to another recording artist, Wenhan.

They are suddenly asking Sungjoo questions – about his travels, how long he’ll be staying in Seoul, where he’s going next and so on. Seeing him smile so genuinely like this makes something bittersweet grate at the back of her throat. 

But then a warmth at her side brings her eyes up to see Sungjoo still laughing and shaking his head, a step behind her. Suggestions for him to sing for them are being thrown about and when he glances over at her, they all look as well.

Nodding, she smiles and he sighs in defeat. Yixuan opens the studio door open and she feels Sungjoo’s hand lightly on the small of her back, guiding her forward.

Standing between Yixuan and Wenhan, she watches Sungjoo settle on the other side of the glass, adjusting the mic and headphones, so at ease in this space. When he flashes them a thumbs up, Yixuan nods with his headphones as well and flicks on a few switches.

The music is soft and Seulgi thinks it’s meant to be an acapella. Her suspicions are confirmed when Yixuan hands her the headphones.

In this space and time, it’s only her and Sungjoo’s voice, deep and husky, in her ears and soaking her from within.

To her, music, singing, any creative art is all about pushing herself until almost breaking point while still maintaining a smile. As hard and soon as she can, while she’s still young and still has dreams beyond university.

The most she can hope for is that she doesn’t burn out, first or at all.

It’s not like that for him.

Music isn’t about pushing forward to straining point while hanging a smile on lips. Nor is it about gathering all the broken pieces people have left behind in hopes of patching up blank spaces. And it certainly isn’t about pretending.

To Sungjoo, it’s catharsis. When he’s singing like this, it’s clear to anyone that, in this moment, he is the purest version of himself, throwing his all into it and coming out stronger. Everyone present is enthralled, caught in his passion.

It’s release, it’s blind honesty, it’s  _freedom_.

In this moment, seeing him like this makes something like envy rise inside her, though it feels more like heartache than jealousy. Because he loves music and singing in a way that she has never felt for anything.

 

* * *

 

“Why did you come back to Seoul?”

The swollen sun is descending into the horizon now as they sit on the stairs close to the harbor, clutching warm drinks and him two steps below her.

He shrugs as the sip of his Americano. “The same reason why people travel.”

“What are you looking for?”

There is no hesitancy in his voice. “I don’t love piano anymore.” He’s so tall that, even when he’s two steps below, they are still at almost equal height. So now when he’s this close and looking straight at her, it’s a stare even more piercing than usual. “When I see you practice so hard, I see myself. I just hope my last student will be able take what’s left of my dream to go onto greater heights.”

She nods and is about to answer, but suddenly he’s leaning almost impossibly closer. They’re so close that she can see the crinkles at the corners of his eyes and smell on him the fresh pressed laundry and the ghosts of forgotten books in libraries. They’re so close now that she can only see that his eyes aren’t totally black, just a deep shade of brown, so close that she can’t see his lips move while he asks.

“Do you feel anything?”

She lets out a breath that she didn’t realize she had been holding but she doesn’t back down. If anything, she closes the distance even more without actually touching or breaking eye contact and replies.

“No.”

At this, he’s withdrawing, falling back and laughing. And she’s laughing too, relief rushing through her veins knowing that she had told the truth.

But, she knows if he were to ask again right now, she’d have to lie.

 

* * *

 

 

If it is possible for her fingers to bleed from playing the piano too much, she’s sure that hers would be pooling at her feet now, scarlet seeping into all the cracks. But the reality is that her heart is already bleeding and it  _hurts_  as it leaks from her ribcages all the way to the spaces between flesh and nail.

She’s playing so recklessly that she doesn’t even hear the doorway open or him sweeping in. A strong hand catches her wrist and his low growl, “Stop trying to fix what isn’t broken.”

Tugging her hand out of his grip, she stares furiously at the sheet music in front of her without really seeing it. “Practice makes perfect—”

“No.” There is a steel in his voice like an animal caught in a trap, entangling her. “No, practice makes permanent and right now you’re doing more harm than good.”

The tug on her wrist this time is much gentler, but still firm. She dares to look up into his eyes, they aren’t burning like fire, they are glowing like warm coals.

“Let’s go.”

 

* * *

 

The setting sun finds them back on the steps by the harbor, clutching new drinks in their hands. He had paid for them, deaf to any of her protests.

Her eyes sail the horizon and feeling her heartbeat play hide-and-seek beneath her skin. She thinks of her faith and all that grounds her and realizes how much she’s changed. Looking over at him, she finds him leaning his head back on the concrete step and eyes closed.

“Did God make man because He was lonely?” she asks. “Or was man lonely so he created God?”

He makes a sound at the back of his mouth and shifts. “There’s a story I once heard,” he replies. “There was once a toy rabbit that heard from another that with his owner’s love, he can become Real. It’s that age-old belief that love alone can save you… But I think it’s something that’s different for everyone.”

Then he stares up at her, gaze unwavering. “I think anything’s is as real as you want it to be. No one’s reality is the same.”

They search each other’s eyes, trying to understand what they see. She breaks the connection first. “He left me.” Even though her latte is sweet, the words are bitter against her tongue.

He raises an eyebrow.

Setting the drink in between her knees, she stares up into the sweep of sky before asking, “Have you ever been romantically attracted to some, yet you never wish for those feelings to be reciprocated?”

He shakes his head.

“He asked me if I ever loved him. Jongin did,” she says. “I loved him. I really did. He also asked me if I’ve ever loved anyone. I fall in love with people, maybe too often. But…”

Sungjoo’s looking at her in a different way that she can’t explain. “But?” He prompts.

“But I don’t need him to need me,” she bursts out. “Or anyone for that matter. I don’t need him to text constantly or always go on dates with me. It traps me, obligating me to play the ‘girlfriend’ role society chose for me. It’s suffocating. He called it ‘limbo’ all the unspoken love between us – I call it ‘perfection.’  Why couldn’t we go back to what we were before? The gray area between friends and more than friends. I miss those deep, almost affectionate conversations at 3am…”

She tucks a strand of hair back behind her ear when it gets dislodged in the wind. “Call me a flirt, commitment-phobe, a heartbreaker. Maybe it’s true. But it hurts every time. Because every time I hurt someone else at the cost of being true to myself, I begin to wonder what it all comes down to. Will it always be like this?”

“No, it won’t.”

She looks over to see him shifting in his spot on the steps. “I don’t think it’s a matter of who loved who and how much. I don’t think he understands you.”

“And you do?”

“Enough to know that you value more other things than what our society prescribes as ‘romantic.” He shrugs. “The shared glances, the feelings of companionship, the knowledge that your love goes beyond mere words to the point that even voicing it would somehow take away from the greatness of it all.”

Shaking his head, he chuckles. “I don’t do romance, don’t understand it, couldn’t care less about it. But I’m still human. I still want someone by my side, lover or not.  Someone to touch my shoulder on their way past me or the subtle glance from corners of eyes that seem to breathe dreams…”

Nodding, she’s surprised when he looks over at her, his expression becoming something… soft.

Without warning, he’s reaching and touching a strand of her hair. “We’re from the same cloth, you and I,” he murmurs. His fingers worry the strands. “So,  _look at me_ , Seulgi.”

At the sound of her name, she lets out a breath that she didn’t even realize she was holding.

He pauses at the sound, his eyes straying over her expression, suddenly hungry. “I won’t give you the roses, or woo you with pretty jewelry, or go on grand adventures in the name of love. We both know neither of us want that. But I can promise this; I can promise that you’ll never be alone.”

When she doesn’t answer, he lifts the long hair and presses it to his lips. Then he’s tugging on his jacket and leaving her alone with her drink and thoughts.

“Think about it.”

 

* * *

 

He cancels the next two lessons and she knows why, though it’s not the reason she tells her parents.

But she still goes back to the practice room to clear her mind where he’s occupied so much of the space, but she usually only makes her way through a few pieces before losing herself in her own thoughts again.

She thinks of the velvet, how it’s rough and scratchy one way, but smooth the other — two sides of the same thing, contradictory, complementing, completing; of velveteen rabbits coming alive;

And she finds the answer is more than just simple – a statement of something she had always known.

 

* * *

 

When she comes in early, she’s surprised he’s already there, peering out the window and his trench coat slung over one shoulder.

His lip quirk in the low light from the open curtains. “So, is this goodbye?” He asks before turning to look at her. “Or will I see you again?”

A smile touches her lips as she settles into the couch, leaving enough space for him. Their knees bump when he takes up her offer and sinks into the cushion, sighing with the material.

Then she’s reaching across the space and rests her hand on top of his, a quiet touch for a simple promise.

Smiling so wide that his eyes become cresents and his rough hands gentle as they wrap with hers, he leans forward to cup her face, drawing her closer…

“But I—I don’t even know what your favorite color is,” she blurts out as she flinches back. Surprised he falls back, not sure if he had misunderstood. “Or if you put sugar into your coffee or not. Or if you even like coffee…”

He blinks before, tilting his head to the side, “I could say the same to you.” Then understanding breaks like dawn across his lips and he pulls all the way back, chucking. “But I do know some things. I do know your smile is amazing. And your clothes are simple, but it suits you. And sometimes you wear glasses, but you look beautiful with and without.”

She ducks her head and whispers, “I know your laugh is really loud, but it’s like music to me.” Drawing in a breath, she meets his eyes and says, “I want you know what songs you play when you’re upset.”

Searching her expression, he nods. Then he pauses. The look in his eyes are like that day when he asks if she feels anything. Hungry and wanting.

This time, she leans in too to meet halfway and they are close again, when he whispers, “I’m going to kiss you. Okay?”

Chuckling, she returns, “Okay.”

He doesn’t let her say anything else as he pulls her down for a kiss, breath skimming against plush lips before touching. It’s fleeting, hauntingly beautiful and she almost leans in for more.

When they part, his hand is still on the back of her neck and their bangs mixing against their foreheads.

“So, for the record,” he says huskily, “it’s two creams and one sugar. And it’s red.” He lets go and leans his cheek against the couch, staring up at her. “Mostly because it reminds me of you.”

The evening is falling heavier now and the shadows across their faces do nothing to smother the intensity of their gazes.

“Kiss me again, Seulgi.”

Her finger traces the open collar, briefly across the small window of skin, before wrapping into the fabric and she’s leaning down and bringing this man nearer and nearer until she doesn’t think they can get any closer.

“Okay.”


End file.
